The Man Who Never Returned
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "Poor old Charlie." - On the 23rd October 2077, the world shook for hours as the first and final nuclear war began. Amidst the early days of the nuclear aftermath, a lone man quests for his family in the underground ruins of Boston. Surely some sanity was left in the world that had been left behind? (Containing the lyrical talents of the Kingston Trio!)


**(A/N):** IT'S HERE PEOPLE. AFTER THREE LONG YEARS I'M FINALLY WRITING A FALLOUT FIC.

I'm a long time Fallout fan, and I've attempted to create fics for the series several times in the past. Years ago, back when I was just starting to write frequent stories, I initially attempted to write up a fic involving the final moments of Veronica in New Vegas based on an interaction between the courier and her in my first ever playthrough.

That fell flat pretty quickly, and the Fallout department went dark... Then not only did my TES series begin, but I got the GOTY edition of New Vegas on PC for free from a good friend! The two tied together, and I had vigorous plans to write another series of equal scale involving Bradley "Bard" Creek the Travelling Merchant and his mercenary bodyguard Ava Corsione across the Mojave!

Of course, seeing how much trouble I have writing the TES series alone that faded away with haste... Although I still love the character of Brad the Bard! :P

Now this story is based on a similar theme to my League of Legends fic "Big Iron", wherein the story is interlaced with the lyrics of a song. Said song came into my mind whilst watching Malcolm in the Middle with my dad not too long ago, with Hal and his friends singing "The Man Who Never Returned"

And coincidentally, Fallout 4 was revealed the following week... And it's set in Boston, like the song!

This is going to be quite the challenge to write... I hope it works out :S

 **WARNING:** Spelling errors, empty displays of angst, god awful pacing, noncanon portrayal of the world in Fallout 4 from someone who's never been to Boston, and lyrics from the Kingston Trio that didn't really work in the end!

 **The Man Who Never Returned**

 _Well, let me tell you of the story of a man named Charlie  
On a tragic and fateful day._

Father of two, husband to one, Charles Cotter was the very definition of the term " _Joe Everyman_ ". An average life on an average income, filled to the brim with uneventful circumstances that would make the disappointing finale of _"Ralphie the Robot"_ look like a breathtaking masterpiece. Not that it bothered him or anything. In Mr and Mrs. Cotter's eyes a life of nothing was a luxury. One should feel blessed to be able to experience boredom, or so grandpa used to drivel.

The world was in quite a state if the loudspeakers and tinny tannoys were to be believed. Anchorage continued to be a nuisance up north, Canadian " _rebels_ " were being led to camps like lambs to kebab shops, and the air across Boston seemed to be thick with uncertainty. Rumours had it that the States were on their last legs, not that you could tell with a quick glance across the city. People still lived and died as they always had, as if fuel prices weren't in their thousands and the world was still shining bright with optimism.

Of course none of this mattered to Charlie Cotter. What mattered to him was his family's own little sphere; three ladies in his life that he was bound to protect. If you asked him, the number one rule of the working class is to always think for the family. He would be there to provide for his daughters and wife, no matter what the future entailed.

 _He put ten cents in his pocket, kissed his wife and family  
Went to ride on the MTA._

His little girls begged him to stay a little while longer, but he reluctantly dismissed their pleas. They were an energetic duo, but they were quick to understand the importance of his job. His dead end pencil-pushing desk job, mind. It didn't matter to him: it brought home the bacon, and let the Cotters live in general comfort. The wife gave him one last do over, patting his pockets to make sure he had all he needed from his fare to his lunch. Charlie was a forgetful fellow at times, and there was no harm in checking.

Leaving a peck on his lips, he and the wife smirked to a chorus of " _ewwww!_ " and " _gross_!" from the innocent duet by her side. Farewells in order, Mr. Cotter made his way down the garden path in his uninspiring suit. It'd been rather glorious years prior, but the wear and tear was beginning to discolour its joints. He'd probably get a new one sometime soon if the bills added up.

Charlie didn't make it too far down the street until the tannoys began to blurt out nonsense once more, calling out the times for public transport as pedestrians filed down the streets monotonously. The bus stops were always crowded in the morning. With so little fuel and the nuclear option costing more than a luxury estate in the Bahamas, most people stuck to either buses or carpooling. At least it left the roads empty. It was an average level of chaos befitting any busy morning at first until the loudspeakers added an addendum, klaxons blaring.

 _"Confirmed reports of nuclear detonations across the country."_

 _Well, did he ever return?  
No he never returned and his fate is still unlearned (What a pity)._

As if that was the starting pistol at a track and field event, the mass of bodies suddenly went wild. Commuters sprinted off towards their homes or for the closest shelters, pushing and shoving and biting to machete their path through the undergrowth. Others merely stood there in disbelief, some overwhelmed with emotion and several sardonically disregarding the announcement all together. Surely this was just another one of their drills? _Keep calm, carry on_?

Regardless, Charlie didn't want to take any chances. Instantly he turned back to the house, only to be met by the rising tide of frantic citizens thrashing at his body like a tsunami. He shoved back with his own strength, yet the might of the crowd overwhelmed him with ease and dragged him off in a landslide. He needed to be with his girls, especially at a time like this. But try as he might he just couldn't break through.

He was dragged off by the current.

 _He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston  
And he's the man who never returned._

The crowd kept moving under the percussion of whining air raid sirens, the screams and roars giving it the peculiar effect of a rave club at midnight. Soon enough they were stumbling down weathered stairs, making their way through to the abused underground platforms of Boston. They had been declared makeshift shelters by government PSAs time and time again, but even Charlie knew that they had nothing on the Vault-Tec brand hardware. The station would barely protect you from a brief downpour of rain, let alone a full scale nuke.

Officials and police officers tried their damndest to maintain order, bulky men in bulkier armoured suits holding the line to prevent a crush. They were doing a pretty decent job of it at first, until the ground began to stir and rumble like a beast's growling gullet. Everyone knew what it was, and it was that realisation that started the resulting stampede. The crowd squeezed and battled through the line of officers, desperate to escape from the oncoming storm. Cotter was dragged in by the wave, the collapsing ceiling pouring concrete and dust upon his person as the first detonations began.

A horrible, twisted shriek of agony came from his right as he ran into the station. It sounded like a banshee on the hunt, preying on their victim at the crescendo of an opera. Charlie had just enough time to spot a woman's torso pinned to the ground by falling rocks before something rough and coarse slammed against the back of skull. That woman's warped face faded into black as the world fell around them, hundreds and hundreds of dress shoes frantically stomping past.

 _Charlie handed in his dime at the Kendall Square station  
And he changed for Jamaica Plain._

Charlie wasn't amazed when he awoke moments later, mostly intact. He'd had wilder nights out on the piss; a bit of stray rubble wouldn't keep him down. Like the many other nameless souls in his flock he huddled for shelter on the platform, gazing up at the closed stairwell as the world above continued to rumble like a drum. Under the deafening thunder was an undercurrent of despair and misery, many men and women having broken down into tears at the reality of it all. It didn't take long for a small amount of individuals who still had their heads screwed on tight to take command, and strangely enough Mr. Cotter was elected among them.

Awkwardly what could be looted from the platform's shady gift shops and food stores was rationed and disputed amongst the group. Chocolate bars, yoghurts, chips, cold coffees, and the like. Charlie spent quite some time sitting by the side of a young teen, separated from his parents and devoid of hope. Maybe it was the absence of his girls that motivated him, but he couldn't help but try and keep the kid calm. He doubted it was particularly effective, but it made him feel useful at least.

Soon enough one of the self-elected spokeswomen of the platform called him over. There was no light way to put it: many people were injured, and they needed medicine and equipment. _Fast_. Charles offered to follow the tracks and scour for medical supplies, assuming that the other platforms might have different groups with gear to spare or trade. He wasn't one for playing hero, but if his daughters were here they'd expect nothing less of their daddy. Turning the teenager over to his boss of the hour, he dropped down onto the tracks and pressed onwards.

 _When he got there the conductor told him, "One more nickel"  
Charlie couldn't get off of that train._

He counted each plank across the dusty track as he made his way forward, the ends of his flares blackened with soot. Seven hundred and something-or-other, then he lost count. His legs were beginning to tire when at last he reached the end of the subway, and stumbled into another large platform. Charlie glanced left and right to find it abandoned, its ambient lights struggling to function as they flickered with strain. With a grunt of effort he clambered onto the platform itself, leaving another tear in his trousers to his chagrin.

There was a train car. Across the tracks sat a single car, its doors foisted open to let light leak out into the station. Cautiously Mr. Cotter advanced, sneakily peering through the stained windows of the car. Four people sat huddled together, knelt around a pile of emergency glow sticks. Glad to see that he'd found people amidst the ruins, Charles rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles. He apologised for barging in uninvited, as is proper, and asked if they had any medicine on them. Anything would do, and he would be most grateful.

They all turned to him with utter panic plain in their bloodshot eyes, a collective gasp of terror sending a shiver down his spine. One of them - an elderly man with a knotty beard - fumbled under some blankets and procured something. It didn't take too long for Charlie to recognise the familiar shape as a gun, pointed directly at his heart. **"One more step."** the pensioner warned, his hands trembling. **"And I'll blow you away!"**

 _But did he ever return?  
No he never returned and his fate is still unlearned (Poor old Charlie)._

Before Charlie even had time to beg for mercy one of the man's people bellowed with defiance, lashing out at the intruder with raised fists. Caught off guard the man fired his pistol, sending a bullet careening straight towards Mr. Cotter's favourite body part. Yet the lunger was in the firing line, and the round squeezed itself straight into the side of his skull like it was made of papier-mâché. With a gooey splatter and a subdued growl, his momentum slowed and he fell before his adversary's feet in a crumpled heap.

Exchanging a dazed look with the gunman, Charlie charged forward to a chorus of cries as adrenaline took control of his body. The old man tried to bring his pistol to bear once more, yet Joe Everyman quickly grabbed hold of the barrel and wrestled with him for control. Shots fired again and again haphazardly as they struggled, littering the car's walls with bullet holes and ricochets. Alas Charlie had the advantage of youth on his side, and with brutal strength overpowered his foe and threw his head against the floor. It took five or six smashes against the ground before the old man's cries fell silent, his cracked skull bathed in indescribable gore.

Blood began to pool, caking Charlie's suit in claret. Kneeling atop the inert body, he shuddered for breath while the adrenaline died down as soon as it had risen. The two other survivors whimpered pathetically, young bodies curling up for protection under ragged and worn sheets. Charles observed their pathetic attempt to hide with despair, his knuckles taut as he clutched onto the pistol's muzzle. Overwhelmed with confusion, the wide eyed father did the first thing that came to mind. He clambered to his feet, skidded across some slippery red goo, and shot off down the tracks from whence he came.

 _He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston  
He's the man who never returned_

He just kept running, not letting the spittle down his lip nor the bulging of his eyes nor the heaving of his chest hold him back. He didn't even know where he was going, instinct alone keeping his legs pumping like a fleeting gazelle in the wilderness. Charlie would've probably ran forever beneath the streets of Boston if his lungs didn't begin to burn with exhaustion, pulling him into a complete and total stop. He stumbled against a wall for stability, trying to pierce through the haze in his eyes.

The fog went away soon enough, the dank air of the underground tasting like a hot cup of coffee at a time like this. Charlie sunk against the passage's wall, sitting on the track and gasping for breath. Eventually he started swallowing back what must've been tears, rubbing his eyes in a mash of shock and disgust.

He'd just killed a man in cold blood, and with it abandoned two kids to wallow in sorrow. Call him a philosopher or poet, but that was a little bit sickening.

 _Now, all night long Charlie rides through the station  
Crying, "What will become of me?"_

Soon enough he was back on his feet, pacing aimlessly towards wherever the hell he was going. That shoddy old pistol was still tight within his fist, locked and loaded for whatever stood in his way. He'd counted the number of rounds in its clip hundreds of times during his little parade, desperate for a distraction from idle thoughts of death. He had four bullets. Just _four_ bullets stood between him, and disaster.

Christ alive, he was starving. He hadn't realised until now that he'd been running on empty, his gut growling at him for attention. Suddenly he wished he'd been cheeky this morning and snacked on his lunch on the walk to the bus stop. That food was probably somewhere on the surface now, having been lost with his rucksack during the stampede. As he rounded a crossroad on the track, he couldn't help but fume: he'd always relied on his sister when he took the underground in his youth, letting her worry about all the important stuff while he sat back and picked at his nose. Why hadn't he paid any attention back then? Would he have been so lost if he'd actually listened to her lessons from time to time?

 _"How can I afford to see my sister in Chelsea  
Or my cousin in Roxbury?"_

His sister. He couldn't believe that he'd only just realised. His sister, his cousins, even his distant relatives who he only ever spoke to through cards and never met in person. What were they going through right now? Had they made it to the shelters, or been caught by the shockwave that had sent tremors across the surface? What if the whole of America was gone, its monuments and its history burnt to ashes in just a few hours? What about the rest of the world, from Europe to Asia? Was the underground all that was left?

Thank god that his starved mind was too confused and befuddled to even think about the girls. If he started to worry about them, his grip on his sanity would probably snap into two. Since his teens he'd been adept at abandoning relationships at the flip of a coin, never letting things tie him down for an instant. Be it old girlfriends or lifelong pals from childhood, he could walk away from them and move on with his life as if they were nothing more than dust in the wind. Now that he'd given it up and settled down with someone, all the fears and risks of love were beginning to take their toll.

And unlike so many other Joes, he had no idea how you were meant to cope.

 _But did he ever return?  
No he never returned and his fate is still unlearned_ _(Poor old Charlie)._

Those two kids back at the car just wouldn't leave his head, their shivering bodies splattered with the bloodstains of friends or family. Friends or family that had died defending them from what could've been their demise. Charlie only realised that he'd turned around when the path opened up once more into the station that he'd done the deed. He grunted with effort once more, hauling his heavy legs onto the platform and rolling to his feet. It felt higher than before.

He knew what was coming, but that didn't stop his empty stomach from gurgling with disgust. The blood had kept on pooling and pooling, a large puddle reaching out from the open car doors like the roots of a plant. There was no sound coming from the car, save for the faint hum of what little electrics still functioned. Mr. Cotter licked his cracked lips with a wafer-dry tongue, reluctantly pacing towards the train's door. Rest assured, he only needed one look to confirm the worst.

Four bodies. The stench was _unbearable_.

 _He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston  
He's the man who never returned_

Why exactly was he here anyway? This wasn't a question about Jesus or angels, it was a question about cold hard facts as he returned from the hunt empty handed. He'd come here for medicine, hadn't he? Charlie Cotter, boy wonder, left his people on a quest to find supplies. Murdering people wasn't in the job description, but he supposed that was a useful skill to put on your resume. This was all wrong. He should've been back at home, with his wife and girls. All four of them needed to be together. That was the only way this could be right.

 _Four._ He'd left _four_ bodies in his wake. You could understand his worries; those two young kids back at the train car brought fears for his own girls into the lamplight. They were all vulnerable without him. Hell, _he_ was vulnerable without _them_. The Cotters needed to stick together to be at their best, and torn from eachother's arms by fate they were all in peril. How much did the girls hate him right now for not returning to them in their time of need? Their stupid old daddy, leaving them at the mercy of nuclear hellfire.

Maybe this was all about Jesus after all.

 _Charlie's wife goes down to the Sculley Square station  
Every day at quarter past two_

The wife was a strong woman. Mr. Cotter should've had more faith in his missus, despite the futility of it all. Hell, half the time she was the one who wore the pants in the relationship. Sure he got a few odd looks from the neighbours for letting her boss him about all willy-nilly, but in his books husbands and fathers needed women to keep them in check. Lord knows how ill-prepared he would've been for raising the twins if it wasn't for her taking command.

Charlie wanted to believe in her, and believe that she could keep the girls safe in whatever hell they'd ended up in all on her own. But he was having enough of a task keeping himself going. That hunger and fear continued to stab at him like an acupuncture gone wrong, overriding his doubts with carnal needs and animalistic desires. Food, water, rest, family. That's all he wanted. Did it have to be so damn difficult?

 _And through the open window she hands Charlie a sandwich  
As the train comes rumbling through._

Two and two of course came together, as the thoughts of Mrs. Cotter and her fantastic cooking came into his mind's eye. It was a pity that the girls had yet to tap into their mother's talent, unless they'd been unfortunate enough to inherit their culinary prowess from their daddy. Only the twins could be capable of making fried eggs that looked like plastic, or tomato slices that resembled cookies. In spite of it all, it was the thought that count. He ate every snack they made for him happily - albeit reluctantly.

He could hear voices. Charles didn't neglect the possibility that he'd finally lost his marbles, but that didn't change the fact that these voices were plentiful; and accompanied by screams and cries aplenty. It wasn't his gut that roared - that's for sure - when the entire track suddenly rumbled beneath his feet. Poor old Charlie stumbled for a foothold as the pitter-patter of distant gunfire you heard in those realistic war flicks echoed down the tunnels. The voices seemed to quieten as the shots rattled, as if thousands of tongues were being silenced at once.

Something whooshed by his head and crashed into the adjacent wall. Whatever it was it sparked a catastrophic explosion, its detonation forcing Mr. Cotter to leap to the dirt for cover.

 _But did he ever return?  
No he never returned and his fate is still unlearned (Poor old Charlie)._

Crawling across the rubble with his form flat against the ground, Charlie summitted a pile of debris and peered over it like a sniper at a shootout. He recognised the station; the layout of destruction and seating ticking the checklist of his memories. This was the platform he had began at. Yet there was one significant difference. Tens of wild eyed men, covered in muck and grime from neck to toe, were patrolling the joint with crude rifles and hatchets on hand. Systematically they were rounding up survivors, slaughtering anyone who stood in their path. Either they were hunting for supplies in desperation, or were doing this for their own sick pleasure.

Two of the larger blokes wrenched a young woman from her hiding spot, tugging at her rugged and ruined clothing with eager and lustful hands. She had been screaming for help at the start of course, yet a viciously fashioned blade was quickly put to her throat to put her in her place. Rest assured, she held back her tongue as the pair snickered, desperate for the deed to be done with.

Mr. Cotter continued to spy on the bandits as they dealt with their quarry, a small group of survivors having been lined up on their knees for inspection by their chief. He could only hazard a guess as to what the men were looking for, but whenever they were disappointed they calmly squeezed a slug into a brain and moved on to the next in the batch. Of course Charlie recognised two familiar faces - the woman he'd offered to hunt for in the first place, and her teenage charge by her side.

The bandit knelt before the woman, glaring at her in judgement. Defiantly she looked onwards, her nostrils flaring in indignation. You had to give her credit, not that it meant anything. Within moments he shrugged his shoulders, and without hesitation pulled the trigger of his rifle. The deafening blast forced a yelp from the teen as the lifeless body of his guardian collapsed onto his lap. The executioner moved on, and with tears in his eyes the young boy's gaze darted left and right in a desperate search for relief. It was then that they found Charlie.

It only lasted a moment, but it was long enough to get the message across. The young man was begging him for help before it was too late. But Charlie couldn't do it. There was no way. He just couldn't.

 _He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston  
He's the man who never returned_

Charlie gunned it, booted it, or whatever the word was. God damn it he was _always_ running, never being able to solve his problems for a happy ending. If his life was going to be nothing but running for the rest of time in the endless tunnels of the Boston underground, he just didn't want to live it anymore.

But then what could one man with four bullets do to change anything? Did anyone honestly expect him to stage some sort of daring rescue for those few that remained at the station? Christ, was it worth it for the slightest possibility that he might somehow pull through against all the odds and then also find a survivor? Could you honestly fault him for abandoning that boy?

 _Now, ye citizens of Boston  
Don't you think it's a scandal  
How the people have to pay and pay?_

What had made the world crumble in on itself? Was it politics? Did some random Chinese communist across the sea damn him and all of Boston with this barbaric future, despite not even knowing who he was? Who would be capable of doing such an asinine thing?

So many god forsaken questions as he ran, chasing him through the tunnels that wiggled under the streets of Boston. All he could do was run for safety ahead, or turn back and face them head on. What in Christ's name had Charlie done to deserve this hell? He just lived with his family in small town America, earning his corn and keeping to himself. He didn't give half a damn about what some oriental did for a living. Why was it accepted for the people to pay for the stupid choices of the big guys?

 _Fight the fare increase, vote for John Henry Eden,  
Get poor Charlie off the MTA._

Those raiders were certainly taking their time, making sure to enjoy every excruciating second of their victim's agony. Charlie could hear it all around; no doubt many other pockets of survivors were under similar threats, be it bandits from elsewhere or rebellions from within. The whole of Boston would have no law or order left after this was over with - if the city still stood under the weight of nuclear fire.

He just wanted to go _home_.

There was another gunshot.

 _Or else he'll never return  
No he'll never return and his fate is still unlearned (Poor old Charlie)._

Charles stopped dead in his tracks on the rail road track, the shot still ringing through the tunnels. He wasn't quite sure where it came from, but somewhere amidst all of the terror and all the despair, through his starved gullet and parched lips, a sense of motivation came to life. This regular Joe Everyman could see his family once more, and for the briefest of moments he began to consider how far he'd go if the people he'd abandoned were his girls.

What of that young woman, dragged off by raiders to be nothing more than human meat. A toy for them to do with as they wish. What would be of his innocent, sweet, helpless little girls? What would monsters like them do?

He'd rather _die_.

He wouldn't let them have them.

 _He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston  
He's the man who never returned._

Mr. Cotter turned, fury burning under his hazel-like eyes. He wouldn't let them get away with this, no matter how much effort it took. Of all the people suffering in the world at this very moment - October 23rd, 2077 - he wanted to make sure there was one less person lost. His legs pumped quickly; it didn't take long until he was back at the station, moving with haste towards the scum that had raided it.

Five of them were gathered around something on the floor, some in varying states of undress as they encircled a whimpering form. There was no doubt in what was happening before him. And there was no doubt that he would put an end to it. The world may have gone to hell in these past twenty four hours yet he would make sure that some good made it out in one piece, even if it made him a murderer. He wouldn't throw away his decency, nor his duty to those he cared for.

This was for blood and family.

God forbid they still hadn't noticed him as he raised his gun, too engrossed with their disgusting delights to realise what was coming for them. He had four bullets to spend. Four bullets against the world. Christ could hold his breath, because this wouldn't take long.

Charles Cotter pulled the trigger, and the bodies began to drop.

 _He's the man who never returned  
He's the man who never returned  
He's the man who never returned._

 _Ain't you, Charlie?_

X

 _(A/N): Was trying to think if I should go for 100% bleakness, or something else that left it all open to interpretation... Bah, doesn't change how awkward this ended up being :S_

 _All in all, don't think this story worked in the end. Big Iron had more complex lyrics that actually told a story so it was much easier to build a fic around it. This time it was just too brief, the verses only vaguely relate to what's going on, and... Bah, oh well :l_

 _I suppose that doubt from the very start set this story up for failure. Also, IT'S FREAKIN' IMPOSSIBLE TO WRITE IN THIS HEAT. THANKS FOR READING AND GOODNIGHT, BECAUSE I'M NOT HAVING ONE!_


End file.
